There Is Always Hope
by princesscorps
Summary: When Middle Earth is confronted by an evil greater than Sauron, they call on six U.S. soldiers to save the day, but how willing are they to assume this new role? NOT a L/OC or Mary-Sue


Disclaimer: I own nada. You sue, that's what you'll get. 

Big thanks Blue Cat for being my beta-reader for this!

I'm a fanfic virgin, please be gentle! The more helpful reviews, the more I update!

A mere decade after the One Ring was destroyed, Middle-earth had found peace, a settling as everything fell into order like it was before the rings were even created. Only a select few elves foresaw the evil that was stirring in Mordor. This evil was not like Sauron, for it could not be named. This evil did not thrive from a ring, for it held its own power. None saw it, save for its mindless minions. This evil breathed into Mordor like a plague, a noxious gas that could not be escaped. Some say it was a whisper of great power and wealth that captured its victims in a web built of empty promises that ended in destruction. Others say it was simply a poison that attacked a man's heart, slowly corrupting him with its malice. It had yet to extend its reach beyond the borders of Mordor, but Rangers and travelers told stories in taverns, tales of crazed men and orcs, blind to the world around them, their sole purpose to destroy all life. These whispered tales described them as crazed with strange notions, ranting on about a king and a new world order. It was said their eyes were vacant, their stares empty, as if their very souls had been sucked out of them. Such stories were not often believed by their audience, but they were so catching that they were repeated from pub to pub, with new, juicier additions to the story. Oddly enough, no one was completely sure of the origin of these stories. Some credited them to the Rangers, others to the village grandfather, or in some cases, to the elves. But every story led back to the same words: a new kind of evil was rising in Mordor. 

Lady Galadriel rose her sober eyes to the council that sat before her.

"We are going to need a lot of help."

Somewhere in Iraq

-Juliet zero-five, Juliet zero-five, say again?

-Romeo one-one, mayday, we are going down, I repeat, Juliet zero-five is going down.

The helicopter circled an insane rate; the world no more than a brown blur to the petite woman sitting in the pilot's seat. She turned to Lieutenant Colonel John Wright with wide, fearful eyes. They'd never crashed before. 

__

I should have seen that, she thought, right before screaming filled her ears.

*

One year later. 

Lieutenant Emma Chase began takeoff procedures in a robotic fashion. It was too damn early. Since President Bush had declared war on Iraq, military advisors, through trial and error, discovered a very effective way of mingling the different branches of America's military. Bases all over Iraq were no longer separated by Army, Navy, Marines, and Air Force, but by their specific goals. Marines often joked that there were more Marines on any of the bases because their job was to actually fight. Emma herself was an Army Black Hawk pilot, a Nightstalker, though her entire flight crew in back consisted of Marines. 

"You know, Lieutenant, maybe if we didn't do these goddamned profile flights at three in the friggin' morning, the Iraqis would stop trying to shoot us down," Staff Sergeant Burch commented, leaning between the pilot and copilot seats with a grin.

Emma laughed. The man had a point. "You tell that to General Morrison," she replied cheerfully. She turned to check the back of the H-60 Black Hawk helicopter, "Everybody present and accounted for?"

Lieutenant Conner Jackson counted all four crewmembers and shouted back up to Emma, "Mother Green and her killing machine are good to go, Chase."

In the back of the Black Hawk sat five Marines: Lieutenant Jackson, Staff Sergeant Burch, Sergeant Towles, Corporal Tomberlin, and Corporal Kurth. Someone high up there on the totem pole of military life had decided that one medic, one pilot, and four guys who knew how to shoot were enough for the Red Eye profile flights because all the Iraqis were still sleeping (save for the few late night drunks still stumbling around the streets), and therefore not capable of inflicting a whole lot of damage. Emma shrugged it off as her Hawk lifted into the air.

"So," began Lieutenant Jackson, leaning in next to her seat, "apparently Intelligence got word of a possible Iraqi uprising today." Emma laughed. That was their tradition. When they first arrived in Iraq, every single time they took off, Intel had confirmed reports of a possible Iraqi uprising. Over the past year, the two of them had worked out that system: friendly banter on board and possibly around base, but that was it. He learned early on that trying to actually become her friend was a fruitless effort, so he satisfied himself with such exchanges. It bothered him that his "co-worker" would have nothing to do with him, or any other military personnel, but they worked excellently together. As the only USMC officer onboard, he was in charge of the crew. He and Emma had an agreement: He gets command over his Marines, she just watches where she's flying.

Conner Jackson had first hand experience with this woman under pressure: she was a pro. No one could handle the shit like Emma Chase. But she had lost her confidence. He never understood why, because in his eyes she had done everything right that day. It was pure chance that the two of them had been assigned to the same flight crew again, but he was glad for it. 

The Black Hawk _thwomped _through the black sky. Nothing. Always nothing. Staff Sergeant Burch sat at the mini-gun, with Sergeant Towles and Corporal Tomberlin on either side of him, their legs dangling outside the chopper. Everyone was quiet. Corporal Kurth examined his SAW (Squad Automatic Weapon), even though he knew that weapon so well he could draw it blindfolded. It was a habit, but a good one none the less. Knowing your weapon that well couldn't hurt. 

Burch eyed the horizon suspiciously, "Yo, Towles, what the hell is that?" He motioned to the black cloud of what looked like rising smoke in the distance. 

"Aw, shit," Towles swore, jumping up to Jackson, "Looks like they're burning tires over there."

Conner squinted in the twilight, then nodded, "Dammit. Hey L-T, the Iraqis are mustering." Emma swore under her breath: the last time that happened they got shot down. As the helicopter veered closer to the smoke, the crew noticed something strange: there were no Iraqis. They weren't gathering in the streets, trying to alert each other, nothing.

"This is…well, for lack of a better word, frickin' weird," Conner said while he slipped into the co-pilot's seat next to Chase. She nodded mutely, too confused to answer. Aside from the lack of uprising, there seemed to be no real source for the cloud, like a rainbow one couldn't quite touch. Very suddenly, they were in it.

*****

"You do realize, Lady, that this has never before been attempted," one elf spoke, restraining the urge to scream and yell at the seemingly maddened elf before him. 

Galadriel shifted her gaze to the elf with a mischievous smile, "Do you doubt my abilities?"

Another elf shook his head, "It is not about your abilities, it is about what we will be brining into Middle-earth. We do not know-"

"I know," she held her head high, "I know that these people, especially two among them, will be strong enough to defeat it."

"Why can we not attempt to destroy it ourselves?"

"Because they need to aid Middle-earth as much as we need them here."

The first elf jumped up angrily, "You cannot simply bring six men into Middle-earth to help their personal problems!"

Galadriel smiled softly and raised her chin defiantly, "You do doubt me. I have foreseen it. They have the power to stop this. I do not know why these men, but I know it is them, and no other."

The circle of elves quieted, and their self-proclaimed leader dropped his eyes and sighed with the weight of the world, "So be it."

*****

Emma's breathing increased rapidly: she could see only blackness. No smoke was coming in through the open doors, which had been abandoned by its recent occupants. The Lieutenant settled her helicopter into a hover, then cast her eyes to the Marine next to her. His brown eyes were wide, and confused, but not fearful. Feeling her gaze, he turned to her.

"What do I do?" He was rather taken aback by this question. She was the pilot, he was the fighter. He knitted his eyebrows and opened his mouth to speak, but he found himself at a loss of words. In the next moment, the answer to her question came.

The Black Hawk jolted, as though hit by a rocket propelled grenade (RPG), then the instrument panel started blinking and flashing warning lights.

To the people on board, everything slowed down and all noise ceased. No one heard each other yelling commands and screaming for an order. Jackson's eyes flew to Emma, she too appeared to be yelling, and throwing switches and levers on the panel before, attempting to regain control of her aircraft. All he could hear was his ragged breathing. Chase, having lost all options, put both hands back on the controls and struggled to steady the helicopter. Seeing her fighting, Conner jumped from his seat and grabbed the stick.

"What the hell are you doing, Jackson? Sit down! If we crash you could break your spine standing like that!" the volume of her voice shocked him, for only moments before it seemed he had been deaf. 

He shook his head, "I am not going to sit down and let you take this on your own, L-T." Emma's wide eyes recognized the determination in his, so she refocused her attention on leveling out the bird.

_Dammit, he's right. He is going to save our asses._

The circling would not stop. It just never ended. Tears began to well up in Emma's gray eyes as her arms began to shudder from the pain of keeping the stick steady against the Black Hawk's will. 

"It's gonna' be alright, it's gonna be alright," Emma faintly heard Connor whispering. In an answer to his words, the blackness faded. And the warnings, one by one, ceased. The yelling stopped. Smiles began to creep onto the Marines' faces, they let out relieved laughter and began to pat one another on the back. 

Emma shook, and Conner leaned down, releasing his grip on the control stick, "You did it, L-T, we're OK."

Forever the lady, her only response was, "What in the name of Christ was that?" A bright green landscape spread before them, a shard contrast to the deserts of Iraq, "And where the hell are we?"


End file.
